


Near Death Experiences

by kindkit



Category: Sanctuary (TV)
Genre: Angst, Cultural Differences, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Interspecies, Love Bites, M/M, Piercings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-25
Updated: 2011-02-25
Packaged: 2017-10-15 22:35:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/165547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kindkit/pseuds/kindkit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Henry's no good at living in the moment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Near Death Experiences

**Author's Note:**

> Set just after "Veritas." As of this writing, I've only seen the show through the end of "Kali," so it's possible that things I've invented here (e.g. about the Big Guy's people and their culture) are already jossed. Also, I've chosen to believe that the Big Guy's joking when he tells Kate that he only mates every five years. (The Big Guy's a geek! Or at least a geek by proxy. He would totally make a pon farr joke.)

Henry's not asleep when his door opens. Sleeping's been kind of a challenge lately, and it ought to be different tonight now that everything's settled, but it's not. He thinks about pretending to be asleep, though. The Big Guy would know he was faking it and get the message. He'd go away and wait patiently for Henry to come to him. Or not to.

That's how the Big Guy's people handle this stuff. They're not much for talking things over.

One side of Henry's bed dips and makes a creaky springs-at-the-limit sound. It's nothing Henry's ever especially noticed, but it must have seeped into his brain, because any time he's managed to sleep in the last week he's dreamed about it. The Big Guy sits there for a while but doesn't touch him, so he knows Henry's awake. There's not much light in the room, but enough for the Big Guy to see, and Henry can feel the prickle of being looked at. The Big Guy's breathing is just a little fast--maybe some residue of whatever drugs the doc gave him, or maybe nerves. He smells like the plain soap he uses just often enough to keep within human standards for how people should smell. He smells like _himself_. Henry knows smells, and there isn't another one in the world quite the same.

Henry can't pretend he's asleep anymore, because he's shaking.

The Big Guy huffs soothingly to him and climbs in under the blankets. He scoops Henry up against him, his chest a solid warmth pressed to Henry's back. Henry's dreams never got this far, just to the hints that woke him up joyful and then kicked him in the teeth. This is something Henry didn't even get to imagine he'd feel again.

The Big Guy never cries. But it's not on account of manliness or whatever. Years ago, when Henry was twelve and had macho issues, the doc explained that the Big Guy's tear ducts only responded to physical stimuli like dust, not to emotions. Instead--Henry learned this later, and the doc had nothing to do with it--there's a soft whirring rumble in the throat, like a failing engine, that means what tears do for humans. The Big Guy's rumbling now, rocking Henry slightly, his hair sticking to Henry's wet cheek. It's like crying, but he's not embarrassed about it, so he's one up on Henry there.

After a while Henry wipes his eyes and blows his nose on a kleenex the Big Guy hands him without his needing to ask. "Too many people have died," he says, and rolls over, crushing himself against the Big Guy's chest, hiding his face in the long soft fur. "Do you hear me? Too goddamn many."

"I hear you." The Big Guy's hand slides under Henry's t-shirt, over the bare skin of his back. Henry lets go of him long enough to pull the shirt off. "But I'm not dead." He doesn't usually bother to state the obvious. When he does, it's a concession to humans and their weird, impractical minds. So he's meeting Henry halfway, and more. Henry figures he deserves it, after the last week.

"I know," Henry says. _Now_ , he adds to himself. "If you were, this'd be kind of sick." The Big Guy huffs at him, more than he usually would for a shitty joke. Then Henry knows for sure he's being apologized to, and he doesn't mind one bit. He grabs hold of the Big Guy's dreadlocks and kisses him, waiting through the little pause that always happens while the Big Guy re-learns that he _likes_ kissing, that it's good even if it's human. Once that's over the Big Guy kisses back, kisses back like crazy, with his long insistent tongue and his nails stinging the nape of Henry's neck.

The world blurs like a _Star Trek_ background and everything sort of goes into warp speed. Henry flails around, straddling the Big Guy and stripping off his pajama bottoms, yanking at his own boxers and swearing _fucking stupid come on you bastards_ when they twist around his knee. He kisses the Big Guy hard, with teeth, and paws roughly at his fur and mashes his face against the Big Guy's body, smelling him, licking him, shoving closer.

With a force that makes the bed tremble at the breaking point, the Big Guy rolls on top of him. Henry reaches for him, but his wrists are caught and held against the mattress. The Big Guy says something in his own language, too fast for Henry to follow, shakes his head frustratedly and searches--Henry can feel the effort--for English words. "Easy," he manages. He rests his forehead against Henry's and loosens his grip on Henry's wrists, interlacing their fingers instead.

"I - "

"I'm here."

"I need to feel you."

The Big Guy shifts off his knees and elbows, letting Henry take all his weight. He stays like that, breathing in Henry's ear, his hair and beard covering Henry's neck, until Henry's straining for air. He lifts away then, just enough. Henry gasps but still, stupidly, tries to pull him back down. "Yeah. Like that. That and . . . and . . . everything." Which doesn't make sense even in Henry's head. He goes still, waiting until the Big Guy's eyes focus on his, and says the Big Guy's name. His true name, the one not even Dr. Helen Magnus knows.

In place of the secret name Henry doesn't have, the Big Guy huffs softly and kisses him. And keeps kissing him, face and hair and ears and neck, shoulders, collarbone, hollow of the throat. His underarms, even the insides of his elbows, for Christ's sake. The Big Guy's got Henry's hands pinned to the bed again, and that's good, that's _excellent_. Henry's been worn down to the thin edge of nothing these last days, trying to hold it together, but now he doesn't have to hold anything, not even himself.

So many feelings have been buzzing around Henry's head that he hasn't had space for much else, not even to really get turned on. That changes when the Big Guy licks one of his nipples, warming the piercing with his tongue, then bites suddenly and tugs at it and holy shit, it's like flicking on a light switch and having the room explode.

Or not like that at all. The noise in Henry's head quiets way the hell down, like it's listening to his body, and his body has some amazing stuff to say. Which he knows, in a last wisp of thought, is what the Big Guy intended. And goodbye thought as the Big Guy slides a little farther down him, dragging Henry's wrists down too, and starts playing with the piercing in Henry's belly button. It's halfway between tickling and being set on fire, and Henry arches uselessly, his cock barely skimming the Big Guy's chest. He wraps his legs around the Big Guy's torso, feeling the drag of fur on his inner thighs, and that gets him hotter than he was already. There's a nip to his belly, the Big Guy's nails digging into his wrists, and Henry feels him shudder and force a deep slow breath. Then the Big Guy's tongue is on Henry's cock, a few teasing licks before he gives Henry his whole mouth, taking every bit of him.

No way can Henry last long, and he doesn't try. He's already given himself up to it, to everything the Big Guy wants him to feel, and underneath the flare of orgasm there's something less bright but more stable. Safety. The ground under his feet while the fireworks go off.

He's completely and perfectly happy then, with the Big Guy's head on his belly and their hands clasped loosely together. After a couple of minutes he comes down enough from his brain-chemical high to mutter "C'mere" and open his arms. The Big Guy, still hard, makes a choked noise when Henry's hand circles his cock. He mouths Henry's neck, smothering groans that are still loud enough to make Henry grateful for the Sanctuary's thick stone walls, holding Henry tight to him and thrusting into his hand. Henry'd meant to slide down and suck him, but he can't move, and the Big Guy seems as content as he is with this heated clinging.

"Yeah," Henry says as the Big Guy's kisses turn to bites, so hard that maybe nobody but Henry would know he's holding back. "That's it, yeah," and Henry's thinking _mark me, for fuck's sake hurt me where it shows_ because he's been hurting in all the wrong ways. Good gorgeous pain spikes down his backbone, the Big Guy's teeth grinding and worrying at him as he comes, spattering Henry's fingers and hip. The bruises will be obvious tomorrow; Helen will raise a knowing eyebrow, Will's sure to blush, Kate'll say something halfway between innuendo and just plain crude, and Henry does not care.

The only drawback to post-orgasm perfect happiness is that it doesn't last. While the Big Guy's breathing slows to normal, the hurt Henry's been trudging along with goes back to hurting. Not as bad as before, but not all healed and done, either.

He's tried this the Big Guy's way. But he's human, and words aren't just a little garnish he can do without, like parsley at a restaurant. So he says what he's had on the tip of his tongue since the Big Guy came back, and he doesn't try to be tactful about it. "You let me think you were dead."

The Big Guy sighs, a tired sound that makes Henry angrier, though he doesn't know who at. "Yes."

"There was that virus a few months ago, you almost died, you _chose to fucking die_ , and then after all that you let me think you were dead."

"I wasn't myself when I was sick. The virus affects the mind, you know that. It was designed to." The Big Guy doesn't sound impatient, not quite, but like he's surprised he has to say this again. They talked about it once before, right after he got better, and maybe they both thought that was the end of it.

"You weren't sick last week."

The Big Guy turns onto his back, pulling Henry with him, and slips his fingers through Henry's hair. "When you first came to the Sanctuary, Helen gave you vaccinations. You fought. I had to hold you down while you kicked and cried. Afterwards you didn't speak to me for days."

Henry takes a minute to work out this little parable. The Big Guy keeps stroking him, which is a lot easier to interpret, but he can't just take that as an answer. He's shit at this Zen living-in-the-moment stuff, even though right now, so close to the Big Guy that he's all Henry can see or smell or hear or touch, he wishes he wasn't. "It's not the same thing," Henry says. "I needed those vaccines."

"The Sanctuary needed to be rid of a traitor."

"But . . . " It's still not the same. Not exactly.

"Henry. Stop grieving. You suffered, but you don't need to keep suffering." He kisses Henry's forehead, which is probably a peacemaking substitute for smacking him round the ear.

"I can't keep losing you. Don't do it again." Henry looks the Big Guy in the eyes, because he's goddamn serious about this. "Please."

"It's not very likely that I'll need to." That's the best answer Henry's going to get, he thinks. The Big Guy doesn't make promises he can't be absolutely sure of keeping. But the Big Guy does give him something: words that are too obvious to need saying, except that Henry needs them said. "I'm sorry I hurt you. I didn't want to. I - it was hard. "

It must have been. Henry hasn't thought about that, until now. He nods and settles back against the Big Guy's side, head on his shoulder.

Stop grieving. It's not very easy. He still feels raw, like his emotions were beaten black and blue and then got a sunburn.

What he needs is to get away from the Sanctuary for a little while. Step back from the crises that are always much more important than Henry Foss. He spins a globe in his mind and decides that Australia is far enough, or at least as far as he can get. Australia's got a lot of ocean, too, and he likes the ocean. He'll tell the doc tomorrow, leave maybe the next day.

Now there's just one more thing.

"Hey." He nudges the Big Guy to be sure he's awake. "You ever been surfing?"


End file.
